


Ceasefire

by holograms



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: Chaotic Bisexual Hawkeye, Frenemies, Handcuffed Together, M/M, Near Death Experiences, Period-Typical Homophobia, There's a war, confusing sexual tension, implied (past) child abuse, it's an adventure!, kisses of spite, passive aggressive flirting, trauma! but with humor!, war imagery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:01:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24148639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holograms/pseuds/holograms
Summary: Hawkeye and Frank are captured and handcuffed together, and while they manage to escape, Hawkeye is unsure they will get back to the 4077 without killing each other.
Relationships: Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce & Frank Burns, Frank Burns/Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce
Comments: 14
Kudos: 39





	Ceasefire

Hawkeye didn’t want to be partnered with Frank Burns, and he certainly didn't want to be handcuffed to him.

It was all Frank’s fault. Probably. They had spent two days at the 6072 assisting, doing sixteen hours of surgery in a row each day, and on the way back Frank wouldn’t stop complaining that Hawkeye had been an _embarrassment_ to their own MASH, and then the rest happened very fast — there was the whiz of a bullet and their driver slumped over the steering wheel and Hawkeye put his hand over the hole in the driver’s head but it was too late for him. For all of them. Hawkeye knew this as he was vaguely aware of Frank screaming behind them as more shots were fired and their unmanned Jeep veered into a ditch.

And then they were drug from the wreck and their bags were ripped away from them and rifles pointed in their face.

“We are doctors,” said Hawkeye. He gestured to the bags. “Doctor.”

Although he doubted they spoke English, or cared what he had to say. They pat him and Frank down — they took Frank’s stupid handgun from his jacket pocket and they took the letter Hawkeye had been writing to his dad.

He bit his tongue to stop the laughter from bubbling up when he thought of them attempting to decode his letter for a secret message when all it was about is how awful it was having to bunk with Frank while they were temporarily stationed at the other MASH.

The pair of soldiers spoke among themselves, as though arguing what to do with them. For the first time Frank said something, which was something rude about Koreans.

“They’re Chinese,” muttered Hawkeye.

”They’re all the same.”

Hawkeye was about to argue _no, they aren’t the same_ , and he couldn’t believe that arguing with Frank Burns was the last thing he was ever going to do in this life. But then they’re yelled at and it was the end and he didn’t want to die he didn’t please not yet—

And then there was cold metal slapped around his wrist.

He looked down. His right hand was connected to Frank’s left via handcuffs.

_What if there had been three of us_ , Hawkeye thought, but there had been three. How did he forget already…?

The soldier jabbed him with the end of his rifle, and said something that he understood as _move it._

And that’s how he ended up with Frank inextricably attached to him, being shuttled towards enemy territory in the back of a truck.

They’re sitting close. Hawkeye smells Frank’s nervous sweat and his breath is ragged hot in his ear. It blows his hair, tickling. Frank’s fingers brush against his hand. Hawkeye looks down where they’re chained together. His hand is bloodied red from trying stop the boy from bleeding.

“What are you going to do?” Frank whispers, so quiet he can hardly hear him.

“Why is it up to me?” Hawkeye whispers back. Frank may be pompous but it always takes a disaster to make him have some introspection and realize how useless he truly is, like yesterday when they had someone cut open on the table and Frank’s alarmed eyes were wide and wordlessly pleading for Hawkeye to _HELP._

“No talk,” says the guy guarding them. He’s no older than the boy who they had to leave behind in the wrecked Jeep.

Hawkeye will not die as a POW. He will either die slouched over the operating table because he won’t leave it while they’re getting shelled, or he’s going to die at home in Crabapple Cove. There are no other options.

He leans over, moaning and clutching at his stomach.

“You okay?” Frank sounds too concerned. “Pierce?”

“I was hit. Ah.” He groans again — he’s heard enough men crying with a hole in their gut to make it sound real.

Frank doesn’t realize he’s faking. “Why didn’t you say anything?” His hands are on him, searching for injury. “You aren’t bleeding—”

“The agony!”

“No!” The soldier stands and points his rifle at them. Again. “No!”

“Help me, Frank! I’m dying.” Hawkeye slumps against him. “Do something.”

“What am I supposed to do?” His voice is nearing shrill. “You can’t die and leave me alone!”

“ _Oooh_ , mercy, it hurts everywhere—”

Everyone is yelling, including the other fellow in the front driving, and Hawkeye supposes it’s now or never.

He jumps and brings his hand up, and Frank has no choice to go with him. The chain catches the guard under his chin and he makes a choking noise and Hawkeye takes the chance to grab the rifle and toss it to the floor.

The kid — because that’s what he is — looks at him shocked, disarmed, scared.

The truck skids to a halt, all of them losing their balance and nearly falling over. Their captor makes a move towards his gun but Hawkeye kicks him hard in the knee, making him crumble to the floor.

He really does hate violence.

Hawkeye goes to pick up his bag — with his right hand and Frank is thrown to the floor with the movement — and he’s looking for anything else useful but there is shouting and they have to go, now.

“Come on,” he yells, yanking his arm and Frank doesn’t really have a choice, he’s escaping with him whether he likes it or not. The back of the truck is open and they jump out.

Except that Frank jumps a second after him and they both end up in the dirt.

“Damn it, Frank!” Hawkeye untangles himself from him, stands and drags him upright too. “Are you trying to get us killed?”

“I’m not the one kicking the people trying to kill us!"

He forgoes a rebuttal when he remembers oh right, the guys with the guns, and he slings his bag over his shoulder and he doesn’t have to tell Frank to run like his life depends on it. Literally.

They head into the forest (after a minor disagreement where Frank ran in the other direction down the open road but Hawkeye jerks him back like a dog on a leash); branches smack him in the face and he can’t see where he’s going but he keeps running. Over logs and around tall trees and through greenery. He doesn’t have to check to see if Frank is still there, because he would be hauling him along by his wrist. They keep the same pace: as fast as possible.

There’s shouting and they’re being fucking shot at again. Hawkeye supposes the others are pissed off personally now, not just the fact that they are Americans. He changes directions, hoping that will throw them off. Frank is easily led. The shooting stops — having to reload — and he thinks maybe they will get away but he goes around a small tree and Frank around the other side and their feet goes out from under them and they fall on their asses.

Hawkeye is dizzy from the inconvenience of the back his head slamming against the ground. Frank is up first this time and Hawkeye must have a concussion because he almost mistakes Frank for an actual U.S.A. Army Major when he grabs his hand to pull him up.

There’s more running — he really hates running, he always has, it’s boring and there’s sweating and it’s not even the fun kind of sweating. They run and run and on and on, and he imagines he’s going to be spending the rest of the war running.

“Stop,” he says, because if he doesn’t stop he’s going to die regardless, from a heart attack or a heat stroke.

Frank stops, but he tries to pull him along. “We have to keep going, they’re right behind us—”

“They aren’t.” Hawkeye looks over his shoulder. “They haven’t fired at us since we passed that stream.”

“What stream?”

“The one with the water.”

Frank huffs, his face doing that ferrety expression. He observes the surroundings for himself, but Hawkeye knows he’s right — there’s nothing out here besides wind and nature. Trees, dirt, vines. Probably bugs.

“So it seems.” Frank nods at him. “I guess they decided we weren’t worth the trouble.”

“You would know,” says Hawkeye. He bends and rests his hands on his knees. He’s wheezing and it feels like his ribcage is an accordion pressing on his lungs.

Frank seems to be amused, now that they’re not in immediate danger. “You should do more PT, like me.”

Although he’s out of breath too and he's drenched in sweat.

“Maybe,” says Hawkeye. “Nobody told me people would shoot at me here. I was just told I would be taking the bullets out of people.”

Neither has any idea where they are, except that they are very lost in the middle of a South Korean forest. They aren’t trained for navigation; when they were drafted they skipped basic training because the Uncle Sam needed them in action immediately. The forest is so dense they can’t even use the sun to tell which direction is which. There isn’t anything to do other than get back to the road and hopefully find their troops, or a native willing to help (the latter idea Frank is not fond of).

But first, they sit on a large boulder and figure out how to open the cuffs.

Hawkeye supposes he should have got the keys in the kerfuffle of escaping but he hardly got what he has. First they try to smash it with a rock, but that doesn’t work, and then Hawkeye tries to pick the lock with the tools from his kit bag — scalpel, tweezers, needle — but the lock is very stubborn.

“Let me try,” says Frank and Hawkeye rolls his eyes but Frank’s right hand is free, so he lets him. He isn't successful either. None of the tools fit quite right and Hawkeye realizes there is a fate worse than death: this.

He sighs. “Did you manage to get your gun back?”

There is less than a foot of slack of chain between their bound hands, and while Hawkeye would rather not risk blowing off his precious hand, neither could miss when the target is right there.

“No,” says Frank. “I was too busy with you dragging me about.”

“You’re quite useless, you know that?”

“Useless? If it hadn’t picked you up from the ground back there you’d be dead, Pierce.”

“If it wasn’t for you, I wouldn't be attached to you and I wouldn’t have been caught around a tree trunk.”

“It’s your fault we got captured anyway—”

“How so?”

“Because — you’re — you — _urgh!_ ”

And Frank throws his hands up. Hawkeye’s right lifts with them.

“Listen,” says Hawkeye. “We’re going to have to work together to get back.” Even though their chances are slim, out here in the middle of nowhere, with only each other. “Truce?”

He holds out his hand. Frank eyes it suspiciously. Hawkeye doesn’t blame him; they’ve had many _truces_ that have never held up.

“Fine.” Frank shakes just hand.

“Wonderful.” Hawkeye nudges his shoulder against Frank’s. “This will give us time to get to know each other.”

They look through what else is in his bag: besides the instruments he used for unsuccessful lock-picking, there are bandages, two shots of morphine, one of antibiotic, a canister of water, and a few of C-rations — which Hawkeye always keeps in his bag in case a casualty needs it.

“At least we won’t starve,” comments Frank.

Hawkeye raises his brows at him. “Excuse me, this is my...well, I wouldn’t exactly call it _food_...”

Thirty seconds of whining later and Hawkeye promises Frank that he won’t let him starve, and then they head off, trudging through the forest.

They intend to go back the way the came, although it’s difficult when they don’t know which way they went. Instead of running now there is too much walking. At one point they walk in circles and only notice when they see the same fern three times in a row.

When, according to Frank’s watch, they’ve been walking for two hours, they finally reach the stream. They wash their hands and clean their face with the cool water and take a break, sitting in the dirt and passing the canteen back and forth for a few sips. They save the rations for later, as they had had a hearty meal back at the 6072 that afternoon.

“Do you think that water is clean?” Frank asks, gesturing to the steam. Hawkeye sighs at him, even through he had been wondering the same thing.

“Well, having gastrointestinal distress together would be a great way to bond.”

“You’re disgusting.”

They don’t drink the fresh water.

Nightfall is soon and they’re still stuck in the forest.

If they had a map, that would help.

“I’m tired,” Frank says. Complains. “When are we going to stop?”

“Soon.” Hawkeye steps over a log and waits for Frank to do the same.

And then Frank plants his feet into the ground and refuses to go on.

“Be reasonable, Pierce,” he says. “We have no idea where we are—”

“I know that one. We’re in Korea. Didn’t the Army tell you?”

“Be serious. Even if we get to the road, what will we do? We have no way to protect ourselves and it’ll be dark and we can get even more lost.”

Hawkeye knows things are bad when Frank is starting to make sense.

“Alright,” Hawkeye says. Frank seems to be surprised with how easily he gave in.

He’s been ignoring his body for a while and now it’s protesting — he walks towards and tree, and of course Frank has to accompany him.

“What are you doing?”

“I have to, you know.” Hawkeye grins at him. “Nature calls.”

He undoes his belt with both his hands. Frank makes a sound of disgust and jerks his hand away, the cuffs taking Hawkeye’s right. Hawkeye pulls his hand back towards him; Frank pulls away again. Like a tug of war.

“I swear, Frank, if you don’t let me have my hand back, I’m going to pee on your boots.”

“Just use your other hand,” he says.

“But what if I require both?” Hawkeye asks, teasing, but he manages. Frank turns away to give Hawkeye privacy. After, they switch.

“Having trouble, Frank?” Hawkeye rocks on his toes, facing the other direction. “Do you need me to check your prostate?”

“It’s hard to go when you’re listening.”

“Will it help if I sing? Make ocean noises?”

“Shut _up."_

They find a sheltered area that is out of sight from possible attackers and by moonlight and flashlight they share a supper of a tin of crackers and a few more swallows of water. They don’t speak much, like they haven’t all day. When they aren’t in the O.R. or Trapper isn’t there to play off of, Hawkeye finds there isn’t much to say to him.

The next conundrum they’re presented with is how to rest for the night. They find a comfy-looking area with grass and leaves and not too much dirt. First, they try to lie back-to-back but it’s uncomfortable with how their arms are held back together, and after some awkward shuffling they end up lying on their back, shoulder-to-shoulder.

“I could lay on top of you,” Hawkeye says. “Or you on top of me. I could go both ways.”

“Oh, _you_ ,” Frank says, appalled.

Hawkeye smiles, staring at the treetops, watching how they sway in the breeze.

“Well, we can’t lie facing each other,” he says. “That would be silly.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want to look at your ferret face.”

Frank huffs. “Not everyone can be a pretty boy like you.”

“...You think I’m pretty?”

Hawkeye can feel Frank blushing. He should let it go, but he’s tired and his feet hurt and the humidity makes it feel like he’s a steam room and he’s been shot at on two occasions today and he has to sleep in dirt and there’s a _war_ , all while chained to Frank Burns, the worst surgeon ever to be. He deserves to indulge in one of his favorite pastimes — taunting.

He turns on his side facing him, props his head up on his arm, shifts so his hip is displayed in the way he’s studied in pin-ups. Teasing Frank is as good as any other action, and there’s nobody else out here...

“Frank,” he says, quiet, bats his eyelashes, bops Frank’s nose with his finger, “do you think I’m pretty?”

“You are _annoying_.” Frank shoves Hawkeye away. Which is not far. “Don’t touch me.”

“Your loss,” Hawkeye says, and he shuts his eyes and wills sleep to come.

Hawkeye wakes up, half-sprawled on Frank, with his head against his shoulder.

It’s just one horror after another.

Thankfully, Frank is still asleep, lying on his back and softly snoring. Hawkeye doesn’t make any sudden movements or else Frank would freak out and it’s much too early to hear his squawking. Hawkeye watches the movements under his eyelids. He wonders if he’s dreaming.

He concludes that Frank looks less annoying when he’s asleep. Even though Hawkeye would rather be snuggled up with anyone else. A nurse. Trapper — what he’d give to be under the blankets with him right now in the Swamp, their home away from home. Henry. Klinger. Margaret. Anyone but Frank.

Very carefully, he removes himself from Frank. And then pats Frank’s cheek.

“Rise and shine, lazybones.” Hawkeye sits up and stretches, pulling on Frank’s connected wrist. He looks over his shoulder. “Unless you want to lay with me more.”

Frank mumbles _pervert_ and gets up, dragging Hawkeye along with him.

They said they would have a truce. He didn’t say he couldn’t have fun.

They split a ration of chopped eggs and ham. There’s only one spoon between them so they have to share. Frank scowls when Hawkeye cleans it, laving it with his tongue before passing it to him, tells him, _you're an animal._

Nonetheless, he takes it and eats.

“Do you think they’re looking for us?” Frank asks between bites. “They must. The Army is very competent."

“They’ll be looking for me, yes. I’m important,” says Hawkeye. “You? Eh.” He swigs some water, pretends it’s a martini. “I guess Houlihan might send out a search party for you. Unless she’s moved on to another officer.”

Frank clenches his jaw. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure.” He runs his free hand through his hair. “You two are just doing routine tonsil inspection every other night in her tent.”

“That’s enough, _Captain_.”

“ _Ooh_ , we’re bringing out the ranks. Super serious time.”

They start their journey again. It’s warmer today, and by noon Hawkeye takes off his jacket, but he can’t fully remove it because his hand is fucking handcuffed to Frank’s, so his right sleeve is pushed down to his wrist and he rest is slug over his shoulder. Frank doesn’t take his off, but he rolls up his sleeves up his forearms.

The only sounds are twigs snapping under their boots and the jingle of their dog tags. Hawkeyes had expected Frank to be endless chatter, but he isn’t saying anything. Frank is being too quiet. Hawkeye doesn’t like it. If Frank is going to grace him with his presence, he should at least be entertaining.

Hawkeye starts swinging his arm as they walk, back and forth, like a kid does with their parent. Frank goes along with it for a moment until he realizes and he stomps his foot and huffs.

“You’re a disgrace as an officer,” Frank snaps, and he walks ahead faster.

Better.

It must be miracle, or something like it, because they get to the road.

It feels less so when they creep out into the open and see that they are nowhere near where they started.

They were ambushed not far from the 6072 which is an hour and half drive back from the 4077, and then the Chinese drove them about half an hour further in the opposite direction, and he doesn’t know how deep they ran into the wilderness. So.

He squints up at the sun, points in a direction. “That-a way.”

Frank gaze follows where he indicates. “I concur.”

“I suggest we travel in forest along the tree-line, so we won’t be seen, but we can see if there’s anyone friendly traveling by.”

Frank looks like he wants to argue, but can’t find a reason to do so.

They accept that it’s going to be at least another day’s journey, and then some. They have enough food to last them, but they’ll be hungry. They are going to run out of water, though.

Hawkeye wonders if they died in the ambush the day before and they are both in hell, like in Sartre’s play. _Hell is other people._ And for him, hell is Frank Burns in Korea.

Hawkeye is reminded again why he doesn’t like the man. Frank won’t shut up about how they will be praised now that they’ve been MIA.

“Do you want me to organize you a parade?” Hawkeye asks, droll.

Frank holds his head aloft. “They should respect us. I’ll give you this, Pierce. You’re a talented surgeon. If you could just _behave_ , you would be a better doctor.”

“I’m good enough, thanks,” Hawkeye says. “Although, you would be a better doctor if you weren’t one at all.”

“That’s uncalled for.”

“Flunked out of med school,” says Hawkeye. “Twice!”

Frank’s face reddens. “I told you that under duress,” he says. “But it doesn’t matter how long it took me. I passed didn’t I? I’ve got an M.D. after my name just like you.”

Hawkeyes grimaces at the thought that they’re considered the same.

“It matters,” Hawkeye says, "because if you aren’t good enough to do it right, then you shouldn’t be doing it.” He kicks a rock in his path. “But what I don’t understand is if it was that hard for you, why be a surgeon? Why not a podiatrist, or a phlebotomist? Something easier.”

“Because,” Frank says, “if I’m not the best, it wasn’t worth it.”

Hawkeye understands that.

“Your father is a surgeon too, right?” Frank asks.

Hawkeye nods. “The best doctor I know.”

“You’re lucky you have such a good father. Mine hated me.”

“I don’t blame him, since he had a failure of a son—”

That hits a nerve. Frank comes a halt and turns on him, his face screwing up and it looks like he’s going to cry.

“Take that back.”

“No,” says Hawkeye. “It’s bad enough that our boys are being blown to bits but then they risk their lives again when they’re operated on by a quack like you.”

“I am not _that_ bad.”

“You are, and it’s worse because you’re a mean, mealy-mouthed, arrogant son of a bitch who won’t listen to anyone but your own ego. We all suffer because your daddy didn’t love you and you ache for attention from anyone no matter how shitty they treat you but you'll never get it because nobody likes you—”

Frank shoves him, which is surprising, as is how he teeters backwards — Frank pushing him to the ground brings him down, too. Frank falls on top of him hard and knocks the air out of him and he’s left gasping. He tries to roll Frank off of him but Frank is much stronger than he anticipated and he has him pinned down by his shoulders. Hawkeye manages to punch him in the back where his kidney is and Frank smacks him in the ear so hard it makes his vision go white for a second, but they quickly forgo the hitting and just struggle against each other, Frank yelling in his face and Hawkeye trying to shove him off because he’s being fucking _crazy,_ but as they are bound together, they don’t do much except move on each other.

Hawkeye imagines what it would look like if someone came upon them, seeing them in this position and grunting and shouting, and he breaks into howling laughter.

Frank quiets and backs away, startled by Hawkeye's outburst. “You’re insane.”

“I know.” Hawkeye smiles up at him. “So, you’re the kind that likes to be on top. I would have expected the opposite.”

Frank furrows his brows at him, confused, but then he gasps.

“You’re sick, you...you pervert.”

“I love it when you dirty talk, baby.”

Frank lets out one final _urgh!_ and gets to his feet, and Hawkeye has no choice but to follow.

“Did your dad beat on you when you were a kid?” Hawkeye asks.

Frank doesn’t say anything, doesn’t look away from what’s in front of him.

His silence is more telling than anything else.

“Sounds like he was a bastard.”

Hawkeye thinks he sees a flicker of a smile.

Later, Hawkeye tries to apologize, since they are stuck together — literally — and he’ll perish if he doesn’t have someone to talk to. He’ll dry up if he doesn’t have something to distract himself with.

And okay, maybe he does feel a little bit guilty. He rags on Frank’s medical non-talents every day but it isn’t his business to insult his personal issues, which there are obviously plenty.

“I’m sorry.” He tries to sound sincere. “I went too far.”

Frank doesn’t look at him. “Apology _not_ accepted.”

“Well, I don’t accept returns, so I’ll just let it roam free.”

They lapse into silence again. An angry, sad Frank is worse than a talkative Frank.

“ _Say hey, good lookin_ ’,” Hawkeye starts to sing. “ _What ya got cookin’?_ ”

No response. He’s just going to have to annoy him into speaking again.

_“How’s about cookin’ somethin’ up with me?”_

“Stop that nonsense,” he says, terse, commanding.

“ _Hey, sweet baby,”_ Hawkeye croons, bumping his hips against his, _“don’t you think maybe we can find us a brand new recipe?”_

“Hawkeye!”

Frank has cooled by the time they set up camp. When the sun sets it cools off so Hawkeye puts his jacket back on. They split a ration of pork and beans and they have a cookie sandwich each. Hawkeye is horribly thirsty after walking and sweating all day and he could drain the canteen, but they save the last few sips for the morning. They’ll have to find another source tomorrow or get home.

Back to their MASH. Whatever.

He wonders when he started to thinking of it as _home_.

Sleeping arrangements are yet again a struggle. Laying on their backs had been uncomfortable and Frank complained all day that he was going to have sciatica. Hawkeye tells him his spine will be compressed anyway because he cowers all the time. Frank then jerks Hawkeye’s right arm, pulling it over his head so it’s draped across his body and Hawkeye’s front is forced against Frank’s back.

“I prefer to be the little spoon,” Hawkeye says, mumbling against the back of Frank’s neck, “but this can work.”

Frank lets out a strangled scream of frustration. Hawkeye shushes him and kisses the back of his neck.

“Stop that!” Frank protests, and he should know by now that will only encourage him to do it more. Nuzzling against him, kissing his neck again.

“Gross,” says Frank, but—

“Are you _blushing_ , Major?” Hawkeye asks, because he totally is — visible in the moonlight, a pink flush in his cheeks and coloring the tips of his ears.

Frank pushes him away, and they settle for lying face-to-face. Their hands are curled between them. Metal clinks against metal.

“Goodnight, Frank.”

“Goodnight, Hawkeye.”

Hawkeye wakes to the sound of choppers.

He sits bolt upright and he is disoriented, doesn’t know where he is — but there are wounded and he needs to get to them, he needs to — where’s the PA, _attention! attention all personnel, incoming wounded—_

“Pierce.”

They are at least four zooming overhead, _incoming wounded, there are so many of them, all O.R. personnel report—_

“Hawk!” and he’s been shaken and someone is touching his face — it’s Frank, at least he can help, sorta—

“There’s wounded,” Hawkeye tells him. “We have to—”

“We can't do anything for them out here,” Frank says, and the world comes back to him — here with him, lost.

“Lie down,” Frank tells him, and Hawkeye does, if only to stop shivering.

The next morning they don’t talk about what happened in the middle of the night.

Hawkeye had said too much and it was Frank’s fault because he’s the only person he has to talk to. When they couldn’t hear the helicopters anymore he said,“If they die it’s my fault,” and Frank told him he was _stupid_ and Hawkeye had to bite his tongue to keep from crying.

They share another tin of eggs and ham and drink the last of their water. Frank complains that he needs to shave — he does, and Hawkeye delights in telling him that he looks like a _slob,_ and, _oh my, what would MacArthur say_?

“Oh, hooty hoo,” says Frank, mockingly. “That’s rich, coming from a shag carpet.”

They start early, hoping they can make it back today. Hawkeye is hungry and thirsty and his feet hurt and he’s very dirty.

Hawkeye tells Frank that he smells awful and he protests, “I can’t help it if I need a shower. You don’t smell too fresh, yourself.”

“Maybe we can take a shower together when we get back,” Hawkeye says. “Give you a scrub down.”

Frank wrinkles his nose and turns away from him.

Hawkeye knows it’s dangerous to speak the way he does. The implications of what he’d do with another man. Most of it is harmless flirting — he isn’t shy with his affection. He talks with men as he does with women. He doesn’t see much difference between the two, not really. Never has. He assumes nobody takes him seriously, except for those who do, and that ends up being very fun for all involved. It’s not just the war, finding comfort with his fellow companions. He started kissing and loving on men long before he was shipped overseas.

“I should be jealous,” Trapper whispered in his ear once, after he kissed Father Mulcahy on the mouth when he won a round of bingo.

“You know I find monogamy a bore,” Hawkeye replied, but he took Trapper to the supply room and made him feel quite appreciated.

So this is nothing. So what if when Frank bent over to tie his shoe Hawkeye couldn’t help but notice the man has a fine backside? It’s not like he wants to fuck him.

The day had been going quite well. They were making good time and they haven’t bickered since that morning, and Frank said something that made Hawkeye genuinely laugh.

Frank does not laugh.

“Don’t do that.”

“What?” asks Hawkeye.

“Pretend to like me.”

“Who said I like you?”

“Why do you hate me so much?”

Hawkeye stops and Frank keep walking a few steps before the cuffs hold him back. Hawkeye can’t remember what he’s said that would make Frank get on this.

“You say it all the time,” Frank says. “You tell me every single day.”

Does he? “You’re a bad surgeon and make my job harder.”

“ _Besides_ that.”

“You’re insufferable and—we went over this yesterday. Must we again?” Hawkeye asks. “The sooner we get back, the sooner you can leave my side.”

He holds up his hand where they are connected.

“Am I really that bad?” Frank asks.

“Yes!” Hawkeye shouts, and he hates to admit it’s satisfying when Frank flinches. “I hate being with you! I would saw through my wrist with a dull, rusty scalpel to get away from you it I didn’t need my hand for my job.”

“Why don’t I just cut off _my_ hand since apparently I would be doing everyone a _favor?_ ”

“That would be great!”

“You wish I were _dead_!” Frank yells, and Hawkeye is about to say that he doesn’t need to be so damn dramatic but he hears something and sees movement in the distance beyond them and oh _fuck_ —

He puts his hand over Frank’s mouth to stifle him. Frank squirms but Hawkeye pivots him so he sees what he sees and then they look to each other, their argument forgotten.

And then they’re running again. Hawkeye hasn’t recovered from the running of two days ago and his legs feel like jelly but he doesn’t stop because they’re being shot at _again_.

They’re chased out of the forest and onto the main road. Hawkeye doesn’t know how far they can go on like this, it feels like his chest is going to explode, and there’s nowhere to go and nowhere to hide and—

They come skidding to a halt at the edge of a cliff. Despite hating Frank minutes ago, they clutch at each other to keep from toppling over.

“Back to the road,” says Frank.

“No use,” says Hawkeye, panting. “They’ll follow.”

Frank looks down. Below there is a large lake, crystal blue. Hawkeye has vertigo.

“I know where we are,” Frank says, tugging at Hawkeye’s jacket excitedly. “It’s — I forgot the name of the lake but it isn’t far from the four-oh-seven-seventh. It’s deep enough for us to jump into.”

No way is he jumping. “How do you know?”

“Margaret and I went there once and swam in it and I swear to god, Hawkeye, now is not the time! Just trust me!”

It feels like trusting a lion not to eat you when you put your head in its mouth.

He looks over his shoulder. The angry people with guns are closer. Bullets pepper around them.

“I don’t have a choice, do I?” he asks, and he twines his fingers with his and together they jump.

Off the cliff.

Both of them scream the entire way down.

It feels like a thousand needles jabbing his skin when he plunges into the water. It’s disorienting, and his only thought for a moment is that the water is too warm for Maine, but then he comes to. He managed to take a deep breath before impact, thankfully Frank was right (for once) and it was deep enough that they didn’t break their legs jumping in. He swims to the surface, shakes hair out of his face, looks up. He doesn’t think the attackers can see them from this angle; they simply shrug and walk away.

“Frank,” Hawkeye says, voice hoarse. “We made it,” but he’s sinking down, down, being pulled under the water, and then he realizes Frank isn’t there.

He puts his head under, sees that Frank’s eyes are closed and his mouth his slightly parted. He’s drowning and he’s going to take Hawkeye with him.

Even though he’s exhausted, Hawkeye finds strength and he grabs Frank by the collar with his right hand and he kicks with his legs swims with his only available arm and fights to the surface. He gasps for air and he slaps Frank’s face, “Wake up, please, you idiot—” but he doesn’t stir. He struggles trying to keep afloat with Frank’s dead weight. He has wrap his arms around Frank and swims on his back, kicking towards land.

He drags Frank away from the water and all he can think of is that Margaret will blame him if he lets Frank die, and then he can’t stop thinking about one of the last things Frank said to him, that he thought Hawkeye wants him to _die,_ and he thinks about Frank’s kids and their crayon-drawn pictures that he hangs up on the wall next to his bunk.

Hawkeye flips Frank so he’s prone on his front and then he starts resuscitation. He leans in, pressing on Frank’s upper back and then lifts his arms by his elbows to try stimulate him into breathing. It’s hard to do with his hand cuffed. He does it again and again. His face is wet from the water but there’s something wetter leaking from his eyes.

Hawkeye turns him over and his face is too pale and his lips are tinted blue. He’s going to die if he doesn’t do something—

He thinks of recent research he’s read about new methods of resuscitation. He’ll try anything. He tilts Frank’s head back and pinches his nose and puts his mouth to his, exhales a breath into him. He watches Frank’s chest rise and fall. He does it again. Presses on his chest where his heart is and pushes hard several times in a row, and then he goes back to giving him rescue breaths—

And then Frank takes a deep shuddering breath.

And then he coughs and turns to the side to vomits water next to Hawkeye.

Hawkeye pats his back as he coughs. “You’re alright.”

Frank looks up at him. “Are you crying?”

Hawkeye chokes on a sob, wipes his face with the back of his hand.

“This fucking war.”

They rest by the lake. It’s surrounded by enough trees that they are concealed, and they lay in the sun drying their clothes, taking off their boots and socks because those are especially sodden. They take a risk and drink the freshwater. Twenty minutes pass and they feel fine so they drink more and eat another tin of rations.

Frank won’t stop staring at him.

“See something you like?” asks Hawkeye.

Frank ignores his comment. “You saved my life.”

Hawkeye shrugs. “Dragging your dead body behind me would have slowed me down.”

“Is that the only reason?”

“Don’t make me regret it.”

Frank clenches his jaw.

“Do you really hate being with me?”

He sniffs. Wipes his nose on his sleeve.

Golly. It’s really bothering him.

Maybe it’s his bedside manner or the sun is getting to him or perhaps he feels sorry that the guy almost drowned, but Hawkeye has a bit of sympathy for him.

“I’ll be glad when I can leave your side to take a piss,” he says.

“Oh, right,” Frank says and lets out that giggly laugh.

Hawkeye considers jumping off the cliff again because he’s having thoughts like _maybe he isn’t so bad, as long as he isn’t operating on someone_ and _his eyes are kind of nice_ and _that laugh is not as annoying as it usually is._

If he told Henry about it, he’d give him a section eight for sure. Because it’s _Frank_.

“I thought you hated _me_ ,” says Hawkeye. “What do you care if I don’t like you?”

And something in Frank’s composure breaks. He grabs a fistful of grass and rips it from the ground and throws it in the air. It showers on them like confetti.

“I wanted to be your friend!” he says. “I wanted to be included with you and Trapper. But you never even bothered to try.”

He hasn’t. He knew the type of person Frank was when they first met, the kind who could never like someone like him. So this comes as a surprise to Hawkeye, because he thought Frank didn’t want to be part of their shenanigans.

...but then he thinks of how happy Frank is when they invite him to drink with them, and how he called his sham of a birthday party _the happiest night of his life_ (before it all fell apart).

“I never knew, Frank.”

Frank scoffs. “Of course you didn’t. You’re always thinking of yourself.”

“Fair.”

“You’re so _mean_ to me.”

“We mess with everyone,” Hawkeye says. “Even Radar, who is the most helpful person in the whole war. But you’re fun to mess with. It wouldn’t be so bad if you didn’t react the way you do. You’re so righteous.” He pauses. “Don’t you get it? Doesn’t the war bother you?”

Frank looks down at his lap. “I don’t have a great life back home. My wife hates me and my kids — whenever they’re old enough they’ll hate me, too. Although I think they already do. At least here I have something here. Even if you or nobody else respects my rank, it means something to the Army.”

Hawkeye imagines how much he must hate his life to like it more here.

“The war does bother me,” Frank continues. “I have nightmares, too, you know. Of the things we’ve seen, how they bring us those young men in pieces. I never thought I would be doing amputations and consider those cases some of the least gruesome.”

He rubs his face, looks to Hawkeye. His eyes are glassy.

“You don’t understand,” Frank says. “Everyone likes you.”

“Except you.”

Silence.

“I think,” Frank says, “that Margaret doesn’t even like me much. She only wants me for my body.”

Hawkeye cringes. But he takes the chance to change the subject.

He nudges Frank with his foot. “So, you admit it. That you’re intimate with the great Major Houlihan.”

“You misunderstand—”

“Come on! You can tell me. I swear I won’t tell. And we might not make it—”

“Fine,” Frank says. “Her and I have a thing and I’m cheating whore. Happy?”

Hearing it does not feel as good as Hawkeye had thought it would be.

Frank’s voice breaks. “She’s the only woman who has ever been kind to me, other than my mother.”

Hawkeye doesn’t say anything. Nothing he would say would be nice, but he doesn’t think there’s anything he could say. He watches the leaves blow from the trees and land on the lake and float away.

“Your turn.”

Hawkeye looks at him. “For what?”

“To admit,” Frank says, “that you’re a...” and he drops his voice low to a whisper, “a degenerate.”

A flash of panic ignites inside Hawkeye. Almost as frightening as dying.

“Why do you ask?” He tries to keep his tone blasé, revealing nothing. “You want to help me get discharged? Because I’ve been trying, buddy.”

Frank opens his mouth but then closes it again. He shakes his head.

“Just. I want to know,” Frank says. “Are you?”

“Worried I’ll molest you? Trust me, if I wanted to I’ve had my chances, we share a tent—”

“Hawkeye.”

It’s ridiculous to be worried — nobody would believe Frank if he told because it’s _Frank,_ and he’s done to enough overt things to make anyone call him out if they really cared, but he thinks of being beat black and blue, being murdered in his bed. He knows what happens to men like him.

“I’m not a _degenerate_ ,” Hawkeye says, because he isn’t — it isn’t wrong to feel the way he does. Everyone else has it backwards.

Not long after their talk, they decide to go again. Hawkeye helps him stand, and he watches him stretch. Frank’s shirt rides up — it’s been untucked for a day and a half — and Hawkeye's gaze travels downward.

Their clothes are still a little damp, and so Hawkeye can clearly see the outline of something heavy in Frank’s pocket.

No fucking way.

“Are you happy to see me,” Hawkeye says, “or is that...?”

Frank is confused for a moment but then he sees where Hawkeye is looking. Hawkeye makes a move to reach but Frank swats away his hand.

“Frank,” Hawkeye says, very carefully. “What’s in your pocket?”

Caught, Frank sheepishly pulls out his handgun.

Hawkeye is going to push his head under water and drown him, resuscitate him, and then drown him again.

“You had it this entire time!”

“Yes. I got it back before we left the truck,” Frank says. “But you hate guns.”

“Yes! But we could have shot the links apart.” Hawkeye shakes his arm where they’re attached; both their wrists are rubbed raw and hurting. “Or we could’ve fired warning shots at the people trying to kill us. Or shoot in the air so maybe, I don’t know, our people could find us! You’re so stupid!”

Frank shrinks down at least half a foot, cowed.

“It won’t be any use to us now,” Frank says. “It got wet when we went for a swim.”

“A swim? This was not hanky panky time like you had with Houlihan. We had to jump to our probable deaths because you made me argue and we got caught and _stop_ fucking waving that around because you’re going to shoot us.”

“It won’t work, see?” Frank says, and he aims at the ground and pulls the trigger.

The shot rings in Hawkeye’s ears.

And then his leg really _really_ hurts.

Hawkeye falls to the ground, clutching his leg. “You shot me, you fucking ferret face!”

“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to! Oh god now you’re really going to hate me, I’m sorry, Hawk—”

Frank is down next to him, hands scrambling at him. The pain stings so badly that he lets Frank take over, pushing his pant leg up to his knee. They look together to see bleeding from a wound in his calf.

“The ground is right there and you couldn’t even aim!"

“You know the damage would be worse if it were close range,” says Frank.

Hawkeye knows he’s right. Nevertheless.

“Yeah,” Frank says, inspecting. “It’s just shrapnel.”

“ _Just_ shrapnel. That makes me feel much better about the throbbing pain.”

“Shut up. I need to get it out.”

“Oh no you don’t. I’ll end up losing this leg. I need it. What if we have to run again?”

“Stop being so stubborn, Pierce—”

“Ah, I’m _Pierce_ again?”

“I’m trying to help.”

“Please don’t, you’ve done enough damage already.”

Frank sulks and tells him _fine, bleed to death,_ and watches while Hawkeye takes supplies out of his bag. Hawkeye sterilizes the tools and goes to dig out the metal from his leg but he can’t reach it properly because it’s an odd angle and his dominant hand is hindered by handcuff, so.

“Please don’t fuck up,” he says, handing control over to Frank.

It’s probably the most careful operation Frank has ever done. Hawkeye winces as he prods around in there and dabs at the wound to clear it of blood, but he’s attentive and he lets out a sigh of relief when he holds up the the bullet fragment for Hawkeye to see.

“Aha!”

“Wonderful.” Hawkeye takes out his handkerchief and mops Frank’s sweaty forehead. “Now close me up, doctor.”

Frank stitches him closed and it’s not as neat as Hawkeye would’ve done himself but it’ll do. A funky scar as a memento of this misadventure.

Frank cleans the wound, gives him a shot of antibiotic, bandages him — thankfully those had been packaged and spared being soaked from the lake.

“There.” Frank pats his leg. “I managed to not accidentally cut off your leg.”

There’s a bit of acid to it.

Hawkeye gives him a terse smile. “Thanks.”

They put on their boots and clean their hands in the lake — Hawkeye now walking with a slight limp, if they have to run Frank is going to have to carry him piggy-back — and they head off again, finally.

Frank says they should be back to their MASH in a little over an hour.

“Super.” Hawkeye would doubt his judgement but he recognizes familiar scenery as well. Like that mountainside, or that odd-looking tree.

“I didn’t tell you I had my gun because I was afraid you’d leave me behind.”

Frank admits it in a rush, like he’s humiliated — _becauseIwasafraidyou’dleavemebehind._

Hawkeye looks at him.

“I wouldn’t have.”

Would he? No. Probably not? It depends how much Frank irritated him at the moment.

Frank doesn’t seem convinced.

“At least now you can get a Purple Heart,” Frank says.

“You don’t get one from friendly fire.”

“Oh, right.”

More walking. More silence.

Until Frank makes a squeaking noise and Hawkeye realizes that he’s trying to hide the fact that he’s crying.

“What’s wrong with you?”

“Oh, nothing,” says Frank, “except that I’m exhausted and hot and my feet hurt and I’m starving and I nearly drowned, and I nearly died at least three other times and I’m stuck with someone who hates me more than anything.”

Hawkeye blinks. Well, when he puts it like that.

“Would you stop about the me hating you stuff?” Hawkeye says, exasperated. “The more you go on, the more you make me want to hate you.”

“Don’t try to be nice to me, don’t be like—” He breaks off, starts again. “I know how you really feel. I read your letter.”

Hawkeye doesn’t know what he’s talking about but then Frank takes a piece of paper from his pocket.

“ _Dear dad_ ,” Frank reads aloud, “I think my commander is punishing me. I am temporarily stationed at another hospital with the worst person in Korea, nay, the entire world.”

“You stole my letter!” How _dare_ he — Hawkeye goes to grab it but he instinctively does it with his right hand and Frank jerks it back down so hard it feels like it’s nearly wrenched out of the socket.

“I’ve wrote to you about Frank Burns before,” he continues reading. “Remember? The pathetic, sniveling fink dressed up like a doctor? You’ve always told me I shouldn’t hate others but you just don’t understand, dad. I hate him more than anything.”

He looks up at Hawkeye, glaring.

“Frank—"

“Sometimes, just the sight of him makes me sick. Hah! A doctor making me sick. I’m sure it's no surprise when I tell you that he still hasn’t improved as a surgeon. Today he almost butchered someone and I had to fix them up. If he would get injured just enough to be shipped home and I wouldn’t have to deal with him anymore, that would be ideal. I just want him out of my life—”

Hawkeye snatches the paper from him. It is the letter he had taken from him when they were captured. It’s wrinkled from being shoved in Frank’s pocket and a dip in the lake, but the writing in pencil is just as clear as when he wrote those words.

“I took it when I got my gun,” Frank says. He crosses his arms, making Hawkeye’s entangled with his — he drops his arms at his sides. “I read it the first night while you were sleeping.”

“You _sneak_.”

“So what if I am?” Frank counters. “I’m glad I read it, because I know how you really feel about me. That you wish me to be _hurt_ —”

“I didn’t mean that, obviously, I was just blowing off steam at my dad, you know how it is...”

Too late he realizes that is the wrong thing to say.

“I don’t know what it’s like,” Frank shouts, nearing hysteria. “It’s not fair that you have everything. You’re a gifted surgeon, you can have anyone who you bat your eyelashes at, and you have a dad who loves you.”

Hawkeye supposes he is pretty lucky, all things considered.

“I wish you weren’t so mean to me,” Frank says, and then adds, “It would be nice, I mean.”

Hawkeye sighs. “What would qualify as _nice_? Inside jokes? Late night talks? Dinner dates?”

“You're kind with the people you like. You’re...” Frank hesitates. “You’re affectionate.”

Huh.

Hawkeye brings his left hand up, puts it to the side of Frank’s face. “Like this?”

Frank swallows. “The way you are. Everyone is...is enamored by you.”

Hawkeye caresses his face, rubs his thumb against stubble on his jawline. “Are you _enamored_ by me, Frank?”

“You’ve tried you make me.”

“Have I?”

“The way you wear your hair,” Frank says, “and you’re always showing off your legs—”

“You’ve been looking?”

“It’s your fault.”

“Have I corrupted your purity?” Hawkeye runs his hand down the front of Frank’s chest, uses his height to tower over him. “You wanted to know about me? Don’t you know asking questions is dangerous?”

“You’re asking questions now.” Frank’s voice is an octave higher than usual.

“You wanted to know about me?” Hawkeye wets his lips, sees Frank’s gaze flicker down to look. “But I think you already know.”

“You’re a homosexual.”

Hawkeye shrugs. “Somewhere in between. I do like women. A lot.”

“I know.”

“But men, they’re nice too,” says Hawkeye. “Tall and strong and handsome.”

“That’s—that’s not right.”

“How so? Does it really matter what’s in my pants? Furthermore, does it matter what’s in the pants where I put my hands?”

“It matters very much!”

“I didn’t know you were that concerned with what’s in my pants. Or where I put my hands.”

Frank scoffs. “Don’t be obscene.”

“You started it.” Hawkeye smiles at him. “You’re kind of cute, you know, when you aren’t being annoying, and you’re _stacked_ —”

“Pierce,” he says, warning, but he’s blushing terribly and he doesn’t push him away — Hawkeye knows that _look._

“It’s natural for me,” says Hawkeye. “I’ll kiss anyone if I want to — as long as they want to kiss me back.”

Quiet, Frank says, “You kissed me.”

He did, in the O.R., after a long difficult operation and even longer day. He did it as a joke — Frank went for a well-intended handshake but Hawkeye went in for a smooch — but he had been curious what would happen. He wrapped his arms around him and dipped him down and, well.

“Yes,” Hawkeye says, “and you kissed me back.”

“I did not!” Frank says, but he blushes more, if possible, betraying any and all denial.

“Then whose tongue slipped against mine?” Hawkeye asks. Because it happened, whether Frank acknowledges it or not — Frank had gone rigid and let out tiny disgruntled complaint when Hawkeye pressed his mouth to his, but then Frank made a different kind of noise and he parted his stupid lips and there was a moment that it became a lot more than Hawkeye expected.

“That was nothing,” Frank says, and he attempts to walk away then but Hawkeye pulls him back by the cuffs, back together closer than close.

“Did you like it?” Hawkeye asks. “Was it _nice?_ ”

“I hate you,” Frank says, and he goes to kiss him.

As if the last three days haven’t been weird enough.

Frank is enthusiastic about it, but angry. Kissing open-mouthed and he bites at Hawkeye’s bottom lip and and his right hand is in Hawkeye’s hair and he’s leaning so much into him that they stumble backwards. Hawkeye must admit that he’s found something Frank is decent at. It must be the reason why Margaret keeps him around. Hawkeye kisses him back, rests his free hand at his hip and finally, Frank relaxes into it, nerves abated.

Hawkeye feels sorry for him, that he craves for someone to be nice to him. So much that he would settle for something that he isn’t sure he wants. That he would be so fearful that he would be left alone that he would rather them be chained together.

Hawkeye pulls away. Frank looks like he wants to start running again.

“Frank...” he begins, but then a horn blows and they jump apart as far as the handcuffs will allow.

An American Jeep rolls to a stop in front of them and Klinger stands up, wearing fatigues with a lilac tulle skirt layered on top.

“Holy cats! It really is you!” Klinger gets out of the Jeep and runs to them, salutes. “I’m here to rescue you, sirs!”

“See,” Hawkeye says. “I told you they would send out the cavalry.”

He would say that Frank seems almost disappointed.

They climb into the back of the Jeep together as Klinger speeds back to the 4077.

“Everyone’s been going crazy looking for you two. They were starting to think you were dead,” Klinger says. “Nobody knew where to look, but Radar told me I could find you out here. He said it was very important I blew the horn as I approached the area, but he wouldn't say why it was important when I asked...”

Their hands keep accidentally brushing against each other. Frank is so tense that his bones could snap. Hawkeye tries to subtly tell him _it’s alright_ — he gently squeezes his knee, but that only seems to make it worse.

Frank gets his damn hero’s welcome when they return. Trapper and Margaret are there first, checking them over before they’re even out of the Jeep, and what seems like the rest of the 4077 gathers around them.

Hawkeye never thought he would be thankful to be back here.

Their briefing with Henry is brief. They take turns giving a summary of what happened. Captured, restrained to each other, escaped. Lots of walking to find their way back. They were shot at a few times. They jumped off a cliff. Hawkeye had to administer resuscitation. As for Hawkeye’s leg injury, they say it was an accident and leave it at that. Found by Corporal Klinger, in his best sparkly earrings.

They leave out bits about the arguing and the fighting and the kissing.

Henry leans back in his chair. “It’s a miracle.”

“That we got back?” asks Frank.

“That you didn’t kill each other.”

“If we had had one more day,” says Hawkeye.

Margaret coos at Frank, petting his hair and telling him how _brave_ he is.

It’s sickening.

“I can go along with you and Major Burns to your tent, Major,” says Hawkeye. “Watching or participating, either way. This will make it kinky.”

He holds up his arm, showing where his wrist is still connected to Frank’s.

She marches them straight to the mechanic, and within two minutes they use bolt cutters to snap the cuffs off their wrists. One, two, and Hawkeye is free.

And then Frank leaves his side without looking back.

He has Trapper look at his leg, because he still isn’t completely sure Frank did it right because it still hurts, but Trapper says that it’s, “fine, surprisingly,” and, “stop whining.”

Trapper cleans the wound again and puts on fresh bandages.

“What the hell happened out there?”

Hawkeye shrugs, holds out his wrist where it’s raw from the cuff. Trapper kisses his open palm, one type of healing, and then gently applies ointment to it and wraps it in a bandage, another type of healing.

There’s no way to explain it all. What if feels like to accept you’re going to die and in that moment you don’t care who is next to you because you are together. Or about the night when the choppers woke them and that _panic_ —

“I don’t want to do it again.”

Hawkeye takes a long shower, scrubbing his skin until he feels right again, and then dresses in fresh clothes and his robe. He goes to the mess tent and eats more than Radar — who sits next to him silently. How does the kid always know what everyone needs?

Across the room, Frank is having dinner with Margaret. At one point their gazes meet but Frank quickly turns away.

Hawkeye doesn’t think about how it feels odd to be so far away from him.

It’s the middle of the night when Frank finally comes to their tent. Trapper is on duty, and Hawkeye had been dozing but when he notices Frank he sits up.

“Hello, Frank.”

He nods at him. “Pierce.”

Hawkeye swings his legs to the side and pats the space next to him. “Sit.”

Frank does, apprehensively. He makes obvious effort that their legs don’t touch. Hawkeye pours both of them a glass of gin brewed fresh from the still because neither of them are going to have this conversation sober. Frank refuses it at first but Hawkeye shoves it in his hand anyway. Hawkeye clinks their glasses together, drinks.

Frank’s gulps his, grimaces. Holds the glass out for more.

“Do you feel better now that you’ve reasserted your heterosexuality?” Hawkeye asks. There’s no question that he hadn’t just come dragging in from Margaret’s tent. He has that I-got-lucky expression and he smells like her perfume.

Frank opens his mouth to speak — the usual denial of Major-on-Major action — but he closes it into firm line.

“Are you jealous?” he asks.

Hawkeye snorts. He finishes off his second glass. The thought is so preposterous he can’t even respond.

Frank seems pleased that he got a zinger on him.

“I’m not going to tell anyone about....” Frank’s voice trails off, goes quiet. “You know.”

Hawkeye feels him looking at his mouth.

“You kissed _me,_ ” Hawkeye reminds him.

“That worked out well for you, didn’t it? You’d tell me about your _proclivities_ and then trick me into doing the same so you can blackmail me.”

“That isn’t...” Hawkeye sighs. “Whatever, Frank.” He had been deranged enough to think he missed Frank, but talking to him reminded him again why he wanted to be away from him. If he weren’t so difficult to _talk_ to—

“I’m not going to tell anyone,” Frank says again, and he sounds the most sincere that Hawkeye has ever heard. “That you’re—”

“Somewhere in between?” Hawkeye finishes for him.

“Yes.”

Hawkeye stares at him, tries to find what he might be feeling.

“Isn’t that against regulation?”

“I can let it slide,” Frank says. “You did save my life, after all.” He puts his hand over his chest. “I promise.”

For some reason, Hawkeye trusts him.

“I think everyone knows, anyway,” he says, and Frank does that stupid trilling laugh of his. _A ha ha haha._

“Yeah, kind of.” Franks smile fades. “I’m not that way, though. I was just...”

“Lonely? Horny?”

“Excuse _you_ ,” gasps Frank, aghast, and—

—fine, he is or he isn’t, but he can go back to rubbing on Margaret and then eventually he’ll go back to his wife and live out his normal American life. Boring.

“Things aren’t going to change, are they?” Frank asks. “You aren’t going to be nice to me?”

“Unless you’ve magically became a better surgeon in the last few days or have had a personality transplant, then no,” says Hawkeye. “Nothing will change.”

Frank _humphs_. “I expected as much.”

And that haughty Frank is back, but he can’t hide the disappointment in his voice.

Hawkeye wants to punch him in the face and push him in the mud and he wants Frank to fight him back, but also—

Hawkeye pulls him closer by his dog tags, puts his mouth to his ear, whispers—

“We make better adversaries than friends, Frank,” he says, and he bites at his earlobe, making him yelp, “but there are many ways to be _nice_. Do you understand?"

“Ah. I think so,” Frank says, leaning into him, and good. Finally they agree on something.

**Author's Note:**

> Epilogue: Radar sitting bolt upright from sleep, muttering, "oooooooh no."
> 
> \- I don't even know. I'm only partially into season 3 of the show but my stupid insomnia wouldn't let me let this dumb idea go, and then I started writing it and it became whatever this is. One of those ideas that falls fully formed into your mind. I didn't even have particular feelings for Frank, and I was like LOL what if him and Hawkeye have to be handcuffed together, HILARITY! but then feelings??? Frank is _awful_ but watching the show I do feel pity for him sometimes and I guess this is where it shows, and Hawkeye can be a jerk, lbr. But also I adore Hawkeye, and. Yes. Also it became a challenge of, can there be sexual tension with anyone? Sure. I swear I didn't intend for it to end the way it did, it just did.
> 
> \- I spent way too long (during the manic insomnia) reading about the history of resuscitation. CPR as we know it didn't become a wide-spread thing until 1960 (cardiopulmonary) and 1956 for mouth-to-mouth, so a few years short of the setting; at the time this fic would take place, the standard would be the back pressure arm lift method which I tried to explain. However, rescue breaths had been a thing for a very long time but not really used and chest compressions were starting to be researched around that time, and I am 1000% sure that Hawkeye would know all the new fads, so, yeah.
> 
> \- While writing I was watching the episode where Trapper called Frank “stacked” so I was obligated to include it.
> 
> \- I had no idea what Hawkeye would sing and so, Hank Williams.
> 
> \- Anything further to come from this pairing would be quite chaotic, since I see them both of them as subs who pretend they are doms.
> 
> ETA 6/20/20: I wrote this way before finishing the series and now that I have I realize I’m a moron because at the time I didn’t know Hawkeye canonically has intense trauma about near drowning so LOL let’s just pretend he was too annoyed with Frank for that to be triggered idk but haha! What a coincidence.


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